


Before You Go

by yekoc



Series: Post Script [3]
Category: Love Simon (2018), Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, PWP (mostly), Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 14:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14499357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yekoc/pseuds/yekoc
Summary: The slow bass of Bram’s speakers is making him sweat, too, athump, thumpthat echoes his pulse. He can feel a drop of sweat slide down his back, traveling the slow length of his spine to pool in the dip at his waist.





	Before You Go

**Author's Note:**

> This story is technically a sequel in the Post Script verse, but it can definitely be read as a stand-alone story, canon-compliant with both book and movie.

It’s hot in Bram’s room. It shouldn’t be this hot, Simon thinks, vaguely. It’s never hot inside in Georgia in August, especially not in Bram’s sleek modern house, with its central air and big breezy rooms. 

Still. He’s lying facedown on Bram’s rug and there’s late afternoon sun streaking in through Bram’s windows and it’s landing hot against his skin, making him sweat. The slow bass of Bram’s speakers is making him sweat, too, a _thump, thump_ that echoes his pulse. He can feel a drop of sweat slide down his back, traveling the slow length of his spine to pool in the dip at his waist.

 _Baby if you give it to me, I’ll give it to you,_ the song thrums, and Simon hears Bram humming along, low in his throat.

He crosses his arms in front of him and rests his forehead on them, feels the heat of his face, the warm flush of too much sun.

They’ve spent the whole day together, a haze of late-summer perfection: piled into Nick’s truck at the unholy hour of nine am for a road trip to the Chattahoochee River, stopping for piles of waffles and hash browns on the way. There, they floated in lazy groups of inner tubes, numbing legs and butts in the freezing river and watching the green trees spin by on the banks. There was Abby’s laughter and Leah’s warning growl when Garrett tried to splash her, and the brush of Bram’s fingers against Simon’s as their tubes bumped companionably along. A late lunch at a run-down barbecue place on the way back, big rusted smoker out in the backyard and styrofoam bowls of rich yellow mac and cheese, salty-sweet pulled pork. Ice cream, dripping down the cone, back in Shady Creek, and the look in Bram’s eyes when Simon kissed a drop of butter pecan from where it was smeared over his thumb. 

And now the day’s not over, not quite yet, and they have Bram’s house to themselves until it’s dark out, at least. 

Simon lets the thought of that roll through him. He stretches out, down through his toes, lets them flex against Bram’s carpet. Another drop of sweat trembles at his neck and begins its slow descent.

“You good?” Bram asks, and Simon nods into his arms. He could turn his head to look at Bram, he thinks, to see the sweet concentration on his face, the way his muscles shift. They’ve done this before, a few times, even if it hasn’t been this--deliberate. Simon likes the way it makes Bram look.

He likes this too, though--not looking, just sinking into the feeling of it. Bram has one finger in him, just a gentle press. Simon breathes into it, feels another bead of sweat. Bram’s fingers are so good. Even one feels big, huge. When Bram moves his finger Simon clenches around him to get more of the feeling. He breathes out, hard and shaky. 

“Can I do another one?” Bram asks, and Simon says, “Yeah--yeah.” 

He feels a blunt press, a promise, and then a stretch. Simon feels greedy for the _more_ of it. He can’t really move, the way he’s all laid out on the rug, but he rocks back a little bit anyway, trying to chase what Bram’s offering. He feels the slide of more lube, and then Bram’s pressing in again, more sure. 

“Yeah,” Simon says, grateful, and Bram makes a low noise in his throat. 

“I want--” Bram says, and then he shifts, crooks his fingers a little bit, and they glance over that place inside Simon and he lets out a low groan at the feeling of it.

“Simon,” Bram says. He lets out a slow breath. “God.” 

Four months, now, and they’ve done so much together, Simon thinks--he hears himself make another noise when the feeling of Bram’s fingers rubs up against memories of the first time he’d pressed into Bram’s body, the look on Bram’s face in the moonlight. How his eyes widened with it, the way he breathed hot and fast into Simon’s shoulder. 

It’s been a slow, thick summer, and they’ve found a whole bunch of ways to get around parental restrictions and thin walls. And even after all of that, it still takes him by hot surprise when Bram responds to the sounds he makes. When he sees Bram’s hands and feels his whole body flush.

It’s not getting old, Simon thinks. The fevered burn of it isn’t fading, hasn’t even started to taper off. Suddenly, two fingers isn’t enough.

“Three,” he says, “Bram, come on,” and this is another new thing, a small one.

“You sure?” Bram asks, but Simon can hear him opening the lube again, can feel the cold drip of it. 

“Bram,” he says again, almost a beg, and Bram hears it for the _yes_ that it is. Simon feels him slide his fingers out and the loss makes him shift and bite down on his forearm to keep from whining, and then they’re back, three of them, and the unexpected relief of it comes hand-in-hand with something closer to pain than anything they’ve done before. It’s not bad, just--a lot. Simon wants all of it.

“God,” he says, when Bram’s pressed all the way in. His fingers are shallower, like he can’t quite fit them all. The thought of it, of the way he must be stretched out, makes Simon groan.

“This is insane,” Bram says, but he sounds like that’s a good thing. “Simon--” 

“‘S good,” Simon says. It’s hard to talk, when he’s feeling this much. It’s like there’s no room for anything else. 

When Bram moves his fingers this time it’s slow, not an easy in-and-out, just little jerky movements. The press of it, the uneven rub, is so good. Simon knows that he’s making noise, more and more of it, but he can’t think about it, can’t think about anything except the way the feeling of Bram’s fingers is building, an ache that’s taking over his whole body. 

He presses up onto his elbows and shifts back, still wanting more, and Bram’s other hand slides across the sweaty expanse of his back. Simon can feel him thumbing at the ridges of his spine, sweeping over his hip, before he comes back to Simon’s ass, palms him there while he’s still pressing long fingers inside him.

“You look _really_ good,” Bram says, and if Simon could think right now he’d think about the way Bram sounds almost awed, like he can’t believe Simon’s real. But all Simon can do is feel this, the hot ache of it. 

He’s so close. 

“I’m--,” he tries to say to Bram. Sometimes it seems dumb that it’s still hard to ask for things out loud, especially when Bram is three fingers deep in him. You’d think they’d be over being shy, by now. But email is still easiest--just the other week, he told Bram about this porn he’d seen, a guy getting fingered for the whole video, no fucking or anything. How hot it was. And Bram didn’t make fun of him for it or think it was weird, he just wrote back, _Of course I want to try that with you, Simon, are you kidding?_. Talking out loud--that’s harder. Simon’s still working on it. 

“I’m close,” he makes himself say to Bram, biting his lip. Bram makes a low noise behind him. 

“What do you--tell me what to do,” Bram says, and Simon gathers himself through the hot fog of feeling and says, “Just, uh. Touch me, could you--”

Bram gets it. His hand is big around Simon, which always gets Simon even hotter, for whatever reason. He doesn’t question it too much, just goes with it, the sense that he can let go and fuck into Bram’s hand and Bram will have him, will be there. It’s that thought that finally does it for him, that and the way Bram’s fingers stretch him as he moves. 

Simon’s caught in his hands, and he jerks and thrusts and comes, gritting his teeth against a shout, Bram all around him, everywhere. 

God, it’s so _good_. Simon feels boneless, breathless. Sweat drips down onto the rug in front of him and he tries to focus, to come back. He can hear his own breathing, harsh gulps of air. Bram’s breathing fast, too, still touching Simon. 

The song has changed, now. _Don’t you quit loving me, don’t stop loving me;_ Rihanna at her most plaintive. 

When Bram pulls his fingers out he’s slow and gentle but suddenly they’re gone and Simon--

“Don’t,” he says, still wanting it and not really understanding why. “Just--can you stay.”

“Yeah,” Bram says. “I’m right here.” His voice is gentle. 

“No,” says Simon, frustrated. “I mean your fingers, can you just--please.”

“Uh,” says Bram. “Sure, I mean. But you just--”

“I know,” says Simon. “I don’t--it’s fine.” It’s not fine, though. He doesn’t--he feels empty, and it sucks. 

“Hey,” says Bram. “Simon, it’s okay. Okay? Look, just--turn over, alright?”

Simon does, wincing against the wet slide of his thighs, lube and sweat. On his back, he can see Bram’s room again, its crowded books, the blue and white pennant on the wall. There’s come on the rug, and his stomach, and on Bram’s hand. 

“Sorry,” Simon says, “gross, we should have--”

“It’s fine,” says Bram, distracted. He’s looking at Simon. Sometimes Simon wants to shut his eyes against the way Bram looks at him, because it feels like too much--he can’t possibly be what Bram sees when he looks like that. Sometimes he worries that Bram will realize it. 

Other times, when Bram looks at him like that, warmth blooms from somewhere deep inside Simon until his whole body is throbbing with it. Never stop looking at me, he wants to say. 

Bram leans down to kiss him, slow and warm. “Is this what you--” he asks, and he’s sliding two fingers back into Simon where he’s still wet and open, and god, that's better. Yes, yes. Yes.

“Okay,” Bram says, kissing him again, and Simon’s still saying yes, he can’t stop. Bram’s hard against his hip, dick dragging through the drops of come on Simon’s stomach. His other hand slides into Simon’s hair. Simon’s been lazy about cutting his hair this summer. Bram hasn’t minded. His fingers twist there, and stay. 

Everywhere Simon can see, everywhere he can feel, there’s Bram. He slides another finger into Simon and Simon sighs with the feeling of it, the stretch. 

“You want to come again?” Bram asks, and Simon shakes his head. 

“This is just--good,” he says. “You can, though, you should.”

“Yeah,” Bram says, but when he moves his hand away from Simon’s hair Simon can’t help the small noise of protest he makes. He just--

Bram’s hand is there, fingers carding Simon’s hair back from his forehead. 

“Don’t go,” he says to Bram, like an idiot, and Bram says, “I’m here, we’re good, look--” and it’s weird, and awkward, but he’s shifting against Simon’s stomach, dick moving in shaky thrusts. Simon can barely move. Doesn’t want to move. So he lets Bram know how it feels, to be caught up in him like this--moans the feeling of it, the ache of Bram’s fingers where he’s too sensitive, the sweat and the heat. 

“Yeah,” Bram says, roughly, “It doesn’t get _old_ , the way you sound,” and Simon startled laugh breaks on another low groan when Bram shivers and tightens and comes. 

“Sorry,” Bram says, when he’s done shaking, “I think my hand is cramping--”

It’s still a loss, but Simon’s ready for it, this time. 

Bram lies down on his back next to Simon. 

“What is this playlist, anyway?” Simon asks. It’s Lana Del Rey, now, slow and lazy in the hot room. 

Bram laughs. “This is the radio,” he says. “Can you believe it?”

“Lana is what summer is, in music form,” says Simon. He feels so good, like his whole body’s melting into the gross rug. 

_Doesn’t matter if I’m not enough, for the future or the things to come,_ sings the radio. 

“Hey,” Bram says, suddenly. Simon turns his head to look at him. Bram gives him a small smile, one of the ones he saves for Simon. 

“No matter what happens,” Bram says. “In--the next few years. I just.” He pauses.

Simon looks at the pennant on Bram’s wall again, the looming promise of it. 

“I’ll be here,” Bram says. “That’s all. I don’t know if that--”

Simon thinks he gets it, though. He reaches out, twists his fingers through Bram’s warm, sweaty, continuously breathtaking ones. 

They’ll email, and they’ll visit, and they’ll try. And if it doesn’t--if it doesn’t work, somehow, it still won’t be the end. The thought of it floods over Simon in a rush. 

They both know they’re leaving in two weeks. In less than two weeks. The day’s heat is just another reminder that it’s the fading end of summer, the last humid, bursting moments of it. But when Simon says, “I won’t leave, either,” they both know he doesn’t mean the plane he’s getting on. 

“I mean, we did it twice,” Simon says, looking at Bram, and Bram nods at him. If they have to. If there are more endings. They'll just--find their way back to each other, again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the only song in the world not jammed explicitly into this fic, Lana Del Rey's "Summertime Sadness."


End file.
